


Closing the Distance

by berlynn_wohl



Series: Distances [10]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-02
Updated: 2007-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:58:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mind followed the thread backward. Why he'd come straight here. Why he'd been in sickbay. Why he'd been accused of drinking. Why there had been a wake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closing the Distance

It was the brightest room he'd ever been in. He knew this, even before he opened his eyes.

When he did open them, he had a look around and was able to determine, _This is sickbay_. After some time had passed, he determined also, _This is my sickbay_.

"This is my sickbay," he said aloud, and tried to get up. "I'm on the wrong end of that tricorder."

"Lie down, Leonard," Christine Chapel said flatly. "I don't know what you drank last night, but it's made a mess of you."

McCoy flung his arm over his eyes to shield himself, from the light and from Christine's judgmental stare. "I didn't drink last night."

She smirked. " _You_ didn't drink? At a _wake_?"

"It smelled like poison," he whispered, a minute later, when he remembered. "Christine, let me go back to my quarters. There's nothing wrong with me that a few more hours' sleep won't cure. But not in here."

"Your readings are all over the place, Leonard. I can't let you leave."

"Don't make me pull rank on you! I'm a captain - no, I'm a Commander…I will leave if I want to! And you," he pointed dazedly, "can't stop me!"

He let his pointing finger lead the way. Getting up was first like falling over, then like falling over in reverse. His head pounded like no hangover he'd ever had, until he was on his feet and standing up straight. Then he just felt a little wonky. There was a mirror to look into. His uniform jacket was undone and askew, his hair matted in the back, and he needed a shave. But he was standing up straight. If he could stay standing up straight, he was certain he would look perfectly dignified, and fool everyone.

"I could walk," he said aloud. He had only meant to think it, but sometimes you say things.

"Promise me you'll go straight to your quarters and stay there until we get back to Earth," Christine said. "That's the only way I'll allow you out of sickbay."

McCoy spun around and faced her. "Christine. My dear." He placed one hand over his heart, slowly, trying to appear graceful. "Trust me. No one wants me to go straight to my quarters more than I do."

  
***

  
Ambling down the corridor, McCoy thought that he didn't feel so bad after all. It's just that everyone was acting so strange. All night, people accused him of having had too much to drink, when in fact he hadn't indulged at all. He'd almost had a drink. But before he threw back that whiskey, he'd changed his mind, and set it down, even pushing it away from him for good measure. So maybe he was acting a little strange, too. But if everyone was going to be the way they'd been last night, well, he was glad to be confined to quarters.

When he got to the door to his cabin, he was starting to wonder if he _had_ had a few, because it wasn't his cabin at all, it was Spock's. He had trusted habit to take him where he needed to be. But the criss-crossed strips of tape should have tipped him off, that he'd gone astray. His mind followed the thread backward. Why he'd come straight here. Why he'd been in sickbay. Why he'd been accused of drinking. Why there had been a wake. He put one hand on the door. He could hardly bring himself to cry. He wanted to cry. He knew it was the appropriate thing to do. But it still had not really hit him. That Spock was gone forever. He couldn't shake the feeling that Spock was only gone for a little while. That he would be back. That was so human, to deny the depth and breadth of such a dire situation.

McCoy realized then: the door wasn't opening, even though he had his hand on it. It must have been locked, otherwise it would have opened when it sensed his body signature so near. Suddenly he was confused. Why would anyone lock this door? "Computer," he said, "open this door."

"This door is voice-locked."

McCoy retreated inside himself to contemplate this, and he surprised himself by repeating, "Computer, open this door."

The door slid open, breaking the tape.

He didn't enter right away. Baffled by what he had just done, he stayed right there and said, into the darkness, to no one, "I don't believe in ghosts." Then, steeling himself, he went in. He had forgotten that he'd meant to go to his own quarters.

"Lights," he called. Then, as he winced and covered his eyes, he continued quickly, "Augh! At twenty percent! Lights at twenty percent!" For a moment, though, he had seen Spock's cabin fully-lit. He'd never seen it fully-lit before. It looked wrong. _Everything is wrong! What is going on in this ship?_

The bed was made so neatly, as if Spock had never, ever slept in it. In fact, except for the half-burnt candles, the whole room was immaculate and unlived-in, like a storefront display. But McCoy could smell Spock in this room. And he could feel him.

McCoy laid on the bed. "Lights off," he said. Maybe with a little peace and quiet, he could get this thing figured out.

But it only took a few minutes for him to decide that it was illogical for the words "peace" and "quiet" to be so inextricably linked in certain Terran vernaculars. Quiet only guaranteed on thing. Quiet. Peace had its own agenda; in this case, to elude him.

For the first time, McCoy felt darkness as something that filled a room, rather than something representing merely the absence of light. The darkness was a mass, oozing into every corner, solid and still, and he was floating within it, like a cell in plasma. And now he felt Spock with him. Next to him. Around him. In him. They were the cell, waiting to divide.

 _Spock…_

 _Why are you doing this to me? I thought you loved me. You never came out and said those words, I know, But I was so sure that you loved me. How can you treat me this way now?_

Waiting for a response, McCoy suddenly felt clear-headed. It was as if Spock had never been there at all, not for the last two days, and not for the years prior to that, when they'd been a part of each other.

 _Of all the goddamn times to shut up, he has to---_

 _Leonard, I am here._

In the dark, unblinking, McCoy stared at the ceiling.

 _It was not my intention to harm you. This was the only way._

 _I feel so awful. I just want to stop feeling awful._

 _It is unfortunate that your body has reacted so negatively to my presence. I cannot counteract this reaction entirely. But perhaps I can compensate for the discomfort you have been experiencing._

 _The discomfort? Of all the ways to describe this! Spock, I don't want you living inside my mind, I want you standing next to me! I want you...lying next to me..._

 _My resources are limited at the moment, but if you will surrender your mind to me, I will make love to you, in the way in which I am able to in my situation._

A strand of warmth floated about in McCoy's mind, a filament of pleasantness, which he chased fruitlessly. In its own time, the strand split in two, then into four strands, then eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, one hundred and twenty-eight, two hundred and fifty-six, five hundred and twelve, one thousand and twenty-four…McCoy felt each strand, coalescing into a thick web of warmth. Once it engulfed his brain, it crawled down his spine, and he was dimly aware that his head had lolled to one side and his mouth was open a bit. Tiny, almost imperceptible spasms overcame his muscles. He did not understand what was happening to him, but he had no desire to understand. At this moment it was enough to experience it. Everything felt completely normal and natural. When he felt hands on his body, he was not startled. It was perfectly normal to feel hands on his body at this moment.

After some idle caresses, both hands settled over his groin. One hand pressed gently along the length of his penis, which was still soft in his trousers; the other, with even more care, nudged along the outline of his testicles. The hands moved in a languorous way, but it was at the same time a very effective method of encouraging his genitals to respond, to prepare for a sexual act. His testicles drew up against his body, while blood flowed to his penis, and he began to feel the touches of those hands more keenly. There was an instant, when the hands were unfastening his trousers, when McCoy was aware that they were his own hands, but the moment passed and they became Spock's. The hands touched him the way Spock touched him, firmly and efficiently, but with great care, an undercurrent of slow sensuality.

McCoy was then outside his body, and saw himself. The sight amused him, embarrassed him: an old man, playing with himself in the dark. But then he saw himself as Spock saw him; a beautiful creature made all the more lovely for this moment of vulnerability, a churning cauldron of emotion, begging to be sampled from. Volatile. Fascinating.

Sometimes McCoy felt his own hands, controlling the situation. Other moments, he had no choice but to surrender utterly to Spock's hands. He relished the delicious terror of being at the mercy of another's touch, knowing you were approaching orgasm but uncertain of when it would happen, until it had. When the final moment arrived, it was Spock, all Spock.

Then, Spock was winding himself around McCoy's mind, wrapping it up, just as he used to wrap his body around McCoy's. It was like being cuddled, and McCoy just felt so good, he didn't mind the wooziness and confusion. He was unshaven, rumpled, sweaty, sticky, and totally content. For a moment.

 _Leonard. We must go to Mount Seleya._ Spock's voice in his head was so clear and loud, McCoy was tempted to shush him.

 _What for?_

 _My katra must be placed in the Hall of Ancient Thought. It is the only appropriate permanent place._

Threatened with this fate, McCoy suddenly had a change of heart about keeping Spock's _katra_. If it went to the Hall of Ancient Thought, that would be the end. Spock would leave McCoy's mind and be placed in a vessel, where he would remain forever. McCoy would have to train for decades in Vulcan disciplines, choking on sand and practically starving on a diet of desert plants and roots, just so he could learn to communicate with Spock, even in the most rudimentary way. And until that time, he would be alone on an emotionless world, with no one to love him, or even pity him.

 _Why do you need to go there?_ McCoy whispered. _Why can't you stay with me? Things are hard right now, but I could get used to sharing with you._

There was a long pause, and McCoy was hopeful. He had to admit, Spock was much more clever than he was. Surely Spock would thing of something.

But at last, McCoy heard him say, _It cannot be that way. Already you are dangerously close to psychosis. If anyone found you in this condition, they would sedate you, and admit you to a hospital facility._

 _But I don't want you to leave me!_ As though Spock were walking away, McCoy reached out into the empty air. _Stop leaving me! Stop leaving me! You're tormenting me!_

 _I am sorry, Leonard. I would never seek to harm you._

Spock seemed to retire, to retreat from his mind, and McCoy knew, somehow he could feel, that he would be alone for a little while. He thought ruefully, to himself, _Of course you wouldn't. Not unless it were the logical thing to do._


End file.
